When we were growing up, there was an understood rule that Mom could not be gone from the house for more than two days. Dad could handle work and kids and dinner and soccer practice and piano lessons for approximately 48 hours; but much longer after that, and order would slowly start to unravel. Outside of the yard, the "Home Front" just wasn't quite Dad's "niche."
However, since his retirement and Mom's hat trick of injuries the past couple of years, Dad has slowly found himself embarking on a new career of domestic training. Dad has had learn how to navigate the inner aisles of the grocery store (as opposed to the perimeter where the steak, eggs, and milk live). He has honed his skills in bathroom cleaning, kitchen mopping, and dog walking; and my mother has even let him iron. (No burns or scorches, to his credit.)
As blase' as this all may sound, we must recall that my mom has organized the daily cooking and cleaning of our household as though she had it mentally laid out on a multi-colored spreadsheet. (Perhaps she does, for all I know.) As a result, she has a certain mindset about how things "should" be done. Sheets should be washed on a certain day; freezers should be defrosted in a certain month; and all of these things should be done with a smile and a song worthy of Mary Poppins herself.
My dad's not really a "Julie Andrews musical" kind of guy. He has done pretty well in spite of it. But there has been the occasional... miscommunication, as would be expected. For example, Mom had told Dad what settings to use for a particularly tricky load of laundry. Mom's instructions did not reconcile with what Dad saw in the laundry room; so Dad (former engineer), drew a schematic of the front of the washing machine and took it to Mom for her to clarify. In response, my mother (former schoolteacher) sent my dad to the "Household Appliances" folder in her four-drawer filing cabinet to get the manual. A consensus was reached, and the laundry was finished; but this should answer a lot of questions for people who wonder why my brother and I are as... "detail-oriented" as we both are. And Type A shall wed Type A, and they shall begat Type A and Type A...
Sunday, February 24, 2008
How to Be a Hospital Belle
Lessons Learned from Mom's Hospital Stay
(1) Keep up with your pedicures - You never know when you might end up with a giant brace on your leg that only shows your toes, and it would not do for the doctors, nurses, or neighbors to see chipped Mauve Mania. That would be tacky.
(2) Remember your "Old Wives' Tales" - Somehow there was loose gum in the back of the ambulance, and somehow on the ride to the hospital it ended up in my mom's hair. And what dissolves gum from hair? Reaching back to her memories of my childhood, my gum-chewing ways, and my then waist-long hair, Mom knew that peanut butter would save the day. It took four coats, but I finally got all of the gum out.
It took another four hours to get the peanut butter out from my nails. Mom and I both smelled Jif-tastic the rest of the day.
(3) Train your daughter well - My mother keeps an overnight bag packed with a secondary set of makeup and hair products. My father, whose "travel kit" consists of razor, a toothbrush, and his glasses, could survive for a day or two with what he packs. My mother could survive for a week, outfit the backstage of a beauty pageant, and prepare afternoon tea with what she packs. (Take that, MacGyver.)
The morning after surgery, I took the bag to the hospital; and Mom wanted to "freshen up" right away. You have to understand, when my mother went into labor with me, she waited until the contractions were the requisite time apart, got up from her bedrest, put on her makeup, fixed her hair, and then called my father to take her to the hospital. That is my mother.
About an hour later, the physical therapist appeared for Mom's first round of PT. Knowing Mom had just had her accident and surgery the afternoon before, the therapist cheerfully reassured Mom that all she was going to have to do was get up out of bed, walk to the door, and then turn around and come back.
My mother was understandably less cheerful about the idea. As she got to the door, she became very dizzy (common effect from the hospital Rx); and the therapist brought her a chair. Fanning my mother and trying to keep her from passing out, the therapist leaned down to offer some comforting words and suddenly started. Peering more closely, she asked, astonished, "Did you get up and put make-up on this morning?"
Pale and "glistening" (Southern women don't sweat), my mother whispered, "Yes... my daughter..." The therapist turned to look at me questioningly. I smiled and nodded, "Priorities. Make-up first. Walking second."
I was brought up right.
(1) Keep up with your pedicures - You never know when you might end up with a giant brace on your leg that only shows your toes, and it would not do for the doctors, nurses, or neighbors to see chipped Mauve Mania. That would be tacky.
(2) Remember your "Old Wives' Tales" - Somehow there was loose gum in the back of the ambulance, and somehow on the ride to the hospital it ended up in my mom's hair. And what dissolves gum from hair? Reaching back to her memories of my childhood, my gum-chewing ways, and my then waist-long hair, Mom knew that peanut butter would save the day. It took four coats, but I finally got all of the gum out.
It took another four hours to get the peanut butter out from my nails. Mom and I both smelled Jif-tastic the rest of the day.
(3) Train your daughter well - My mother keeps an overnight bag packed with a secondary set of makeup and hair products. My father, whose "travel kit" consists of razor, a toothbrush, and his glasses, could survive for a day or two with what he packs. My mother could survive for a week, outfit the backstage of a beauty pageant, and prepare afternoon tea with what she packs. (Take that, MacGyver.)
The morning after surgery, I took the bag to the hospital; and Mom wanted to "freshen up" right away. You have to understand, when my mother went into labor with me, she waited until the contractions were the requisite time apart, got up from her bedrest, put on her makeup, fixed her hair, and then called my father to take her to the hospital. That is my mother.
About an hour later, the physical therapist appeared for Mom's first round of PT. Knowing Mom had just had her accident and surgery the afternoon before, the therapist cheerfully reassured Mom that all she was going to have to do was get up out of bed, walk to the door, and then turn around and come back.
My mother was understandably less cheerful about the idea. As she got to the door, she became very dizzy (common effect from the hospital Rx); and the therapist brought her a chair. Fanning my mother and trying to keep her from passing out, the therapist leaned down to offer some comforting words and suddenly started. Peering more closely, she asked, astonished, "Did you get up and put make-up on this morning?"
Pale and "glistening" (Southern women don't sweat), my mother whispered, "Yes... my daughter..." The therapist turned to look at me questioningly. I smiled and nodded, "Priorities. Make-up first. Walking second."
I was brought up right.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Xena: Beyond Thunderdome
My mom broke her leg last week (more on that later), and in the meantime, I am babysitting Xena here in Oxford while Mom transitions from hospital to home. Xena isn't overly aggressive or anything, but a 75-lb dog unexpectedly standing, sitting, or deciding to sleep on you can take your breath away whether or not you recently had orthopedic surgery.
You have to understand that Xena is a high maintenance dog (and this is coming from me). She wants attention ALL THE TIME. My parents call her "the velcro dog", and it's not because she's incredibly useful. Xena does not entertain herself very well - in her mind "play" means somebody else is immediately available to (a) throw the ball (b) hold the chew toy (c) observe with rapt attention while Xena destroys said ball or chew toy. And as a 75-lb. attention-seeker, Xena is very... persistent. Point in case from this morning: there are few things as disruptive as having a Doberman repeatedly shove her nose under your left elbow while you are trying to work on the computer. She is, you might say, "difficult" to ignore.
I had a few toys at my house for her, but Xena has systematically destroyed all of them. As I figured out last night that she was not "chewing", but rather eating the last one standing, I had to confiscate it from her, distract her with a piece of "Pupperoni", and then stash the mutilated toy in the freezer where she wouldn't smell it.
Today in desperation I went find some more toy victims. Dobermans have what you might call "powerful jaws" (even cowards like Xena), so most toys don't survive "playtime" for very long. There are standards that have to be met. I found 3 or 4 that should last a day or two. I will bring them out in stages, but the first was this rubber squeaky ring that cost less than $2. She went nuts over it.
Please do not judge the cinematography (or the condition of the house, as it has been Xena-fied. These are, in fact, different clips. I wish there were audio not only of Xena's barking and yowling at the ring but also of the ring's rather distressing death knells. Shout it out: "Two men enter! One man leaves! Two men enter! One man leaves!"
The ring lasted less than an hour before she broke through the plastic (and started ripping pieces off and swallowing them, of course). I had to take it away from her, and she knew I put it in the garbage. (See her pitiful camp out in front of the cabinet.)
This is why we use the freezer.
You have to understand that Xena is a high maintenance dog (and this is coming from me). She wants attention ALL THE TIME. My parents call her "the velcro dog", and it's not because she's incredibly useful. Xena does not entertain herself very well - in her mind "play" means somebody else is immediately available to (a) throw the ball (b) hold the chew toy (c) observe with rapt attention while Xena destroys said ball or chew toy. And as a 75-lb. attention-seeker, Xena is very... persistent. Point in case from this morning: there are few things as disruptive as having a Doberman repeatedly shove her nose under your left elbow while you are trying to work on the computer. She is, you might say, "difficult" to ignore.
I had a few toys at my house for her, but Xena has systematically destroyed all of them. As I figured out last night that she was not "chewing", but rather eating the last one standing, I had to confiscate it from her, distract her with a piece of "Pupperoni", and then stash the mutilated toy in the freezer where she wouldn't smell it.
Today in desperation I went find some more toy victims. Dobermans have what you might call "powerful jaws" (even cowards like Xena), so most toys don't survive "playtime" for very long. There are standards that have to be met. I found 3 or 4 that should last a day or two. I will bring them out in stages, but the first was this rubber squeaky ring that cost less than $2. She went nuts over it.
Please do not judge the cinematography (or the condition of the house, as it has been Xena-fied. These are, in fact, different clips. I wish there were audio not only of Xena's barking and yowling at the ring but also of the ring's rather distressing death knells. Shout it out: "Two men enter! One man leaves! Two men enter! One man leaves!"
The ring lasted less than an hour before she broke through the plastic (and started ripping pieces off and swallowing them, of course). I had to take it away from her, and she knew I put it in the garbage. (See her pitiful camp out in front of the cabinet.)
This is why we use the freezer.
Monday, November 19, 2007
Not a Creature Was Stirring, Not Even a... Cricket?
Apparently my house is the place where crickets come to die. Over the past few weeks, I have found their dead bodies by the dozen, clustered around my front doorstoop, outside the back door, inside the garage, etc. I sweep them away, but new ones kept appearing every day. I tried leaving their little cricket corpses for a while, thinking, you know, that they might "serve as a warning to others." Apparently crickets don't communicate that way.
What could be the cause of this strange phenomenon? Is it the weather turning colder? Is it some strange instinct that draws them to this particular plot of land? Is it the copious amounts of spider poison that I have spread around every door and window of the house? It's hard to say, really. One of nature's little mysteries, I guess...
Within the past week or two, Oxford has gone into a full-blown Southern "fall" with leaves changing color and fluttering down (both usually within the span of a week - this is one of the few processes that moves pretty quickly in The South). The oak, gum, and magnolia trees are all shedding their respective acorns, gumballs, and empty seedpods as well, which makes walking around Ole Miss a continuous exercise in testing my reaction time and reflexes. A "beautiful scenic campus" is all well and good until it's dropping down on your head (especially the magnolia pods, which are about the size of a fist).
I will give the Mid-Atlantic/Northeast credit for this: they do "fall" much better there than we do down here. It's almost as if God gave that part of the country the deluxe Crayola "Fall Foliage" 64-pack (complete with special edition glitter crayons) and then handed the standard 8-pack to Mississippi, mumbling, "Um... you can make do with these. Just blend a lot."
But that's okay because in absence of a wide spectrum of colors, we've had a lovely range of temperatures mostly in the 60s and 70s. And given a choice between scenery and temperature, I think we all know which takes priority in my world. (If you don't know, please consult any of my coworkers who had to go to Ottawa with me in February of 2006.) You could put me in a plastic bubble with a constant temperature of about 75 degrees, and I can guarantee that I'd be much happier than if I were out in a gorgeous landscape where it was 40 and windy. I'm not saying I'd want to live in the bubble forever... just maybe 'til it warmed up a bit outside.
I head into finals over the next few weeks, so I don't think there will be anything noteworthy to share there. But then I begin my Christmas Break tour of Maryland, Virginia, Mississippi, and California; and I always have adventures when I travel. What will it be this time? Will the battery in my hotel door lock die, trapping me (and all other hotel personnel) outside of my room again? Will my airplane seatbelt strap mysteriously end up in the lap of the gentleman next to me, forcing me to wake him up and ask him to hand the strap to me rather than make a disastrous reach for it myself? Will I charm another celebrity into waiting for me after we disembark? (Hey, Bill Nye the Science Guy - remember me? ;] How you doin'?)
I just never know...
What could be the cause of this strange phenomenon? Is it the weather turning colder? Is it some strange instinct that draws them to this particular plot of land? Is it the copious amounts of spider poison that I have spread around every door and window of the house? It's hard to say, really. One of nature's little mysteries, I guess...
Within the past week or two, Oxford has gone into a full-blown Southern "fall" with leaves changing color and fluttering down (both usually within the span of a week - this is one of the few processes that moves pretty quickly in The South). The oak, gum, and magnolia trees are all shedding their respective acorns, gumballs, and empty seedpods as well, which makes walking around Ole Miss a continuous exercise in testing my reaction time and reflexes. A "beautiful scenic campus" is all well and good until it's dropping down on your head (especially the magnolia pods, which are about the size of a fist).
I will give the Mid-Atlantic/Northeast credit for this: they do "fall" much better there than we do down here. It's almost as if God gave that part of the country the deluxe Crayola "Fall Foliage" 64-pack (complete with special edition glitter crayons) and then handed the standard 8-pack to Mississippi, mumbling, "Um... you can make do with these. Just blend a lot."
But that's okay because in absence of a wide spectrum of colors, we've had a lovely range of temperatures mostly in the 60s and 70s. And given a choice between scenery and temperature, I think we all know which takes priority in my world. (If you don't know, please consult any of my coworkers who had to go to Ottawa with me in February of 2006.) You could put me in a plastic bubble with a constant temperature of about 75 degrees, and I can guarantee that I'd be much happier than if I were out in a gorgeous landscape where it was 40 and windy. I'm not saying I'd want to live in the bubble forever... just maybe 'til it warmed up a bit outside.
I head into finals over the next few weeks, so I don't think there will be anything noteworthy to share there. But then I begin my Christmas Break tour of Maryland, Virginia, Mississippi, and California; and I always have adventures when I travel. What will it be this time? Will the battery in my hotel door lock die, trapping me (and all other hotel personnel) outside of my room again? Will my airplane seatbelt strap mysteriously end up in the lap of the gentleman next to me, forcing me to wake him up and ask him to hand the strap to me rather than make a disastrous reach for it myself? Will I charm another celebrity into waiting for me after we disembark? (Hey, Bill Nye the Science Guy - remember me? ;] How you doin'?)
I just never know...
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Huntin' Gators
I KID YOU NOT. I went to an alligator hunt. Normally I would not feel compelled to drive three hours and hang out at a wildlife ranger station in the dead of night, but that's the kind of dedicated cultural liaison that I am.
Here's the scoop: it's illegal to hunt alligators in Mississippi normally; but two weekends out of the year, the Dept of Wildlife and Fisheries grants permission to a select few. They have a hunter's "raffle" of sorts: anyone with a valid sportsman's license can enter for a chance to gain possession of one of 120 alligator "tags." Each tag allows up to two boats of up to five people on each boat the opportunity to go out spotlighting on the Ross Barnett Reservoir from 6:00 PM - midnight for a Fri/Sat/Sun trio. Each tag allows for 2 gators: one 4-7 foot and one 7 foot and above. They have rangers and biologists on hand to gather the length, width, etc. data. At most, they will thus gather 240 alligators; and trust me, we've got that many to spare down here.
This year they had over 1000 entries. One family I met even entered their nine month old son's name to have another chance to win a tag, seeing as how his sportsman's license was already set up. They had this child at the ranger station that night. He may have been wearing camouflage footie pajamas...
My mom found out about this whole shin-dig from one of our lakehouse neighbors, Sherry, who was our official guide to the ranger station where the "bringin' in o' the gators" took place. We followed her there at about 9:30 on a Saturday night. (Welcome to my social life in Mississippi. Don't be bitter just because you're jealous.)
There was already a small crowd of about a dozen or so, gathered around a red pick-up truck parked in front of the weighing pulley. And there, lining almost the entire interior perimeter of the truckbed was a 12-ft alligator. It was dead (otherwise tying it to the pulley and weighing it would have been extremely difficult). It weighed in at 463 lbs. - "underweight", according to the men gathered around the truck.
Here is the tale of the catch, best as I can recount it from two of the hunters themselves: Baseball Cap Man (couldn't see his face well because of the spotlights at the station) and Paul.
BCM: "We'd been out fer a while, and then Paul saw this un's bubble trail. So, we tossed the line over and caught him right away. Took us 'bout two hours to catch 'im, but he took the bait real quick; it was the rest of it that took so long. Now, Davey'd told us that if they're underwater fer more 'n an hour, they're prob'ly day-ud ('dead'), and he was under for most of an hour an a half. So, we'd figured he was long gone. We started pullin' 'im up, and turns out we had 'im snagged through thuh tay-ul ('tail')! I dunno' how we kept 'im on the lihne, but he stayed ohn. So, we're haulin' 'im up, thinkin' he's done drowned; an' his back feet hit that boat ramp, an' his legs tensed up, an' I tell ya', HE COME TO LIHFE. I yelled, 'Paul, get the gun! Get the gun!', 'n he [the alligator] is draggin' me in the water up to my thighs..."
At this point "Paul" cuts in, laughing, "Yeah, I was takin' pictures! I finally put the camera down and grabbed the bow, but the arrow bounced right off his hay-ud ('head'). [Reporter's commentary: Paul should have watched more Discovery Channel as a kid. Alligators developed all that armor for a reason.] So I threw that down and got the 410, and that took him out."
By the way, a "410" is a shotgun. (My mom had to tell me. Don't ask.)
As proof of their story, there was a snag in the back of the gator's tail, a shotgun "scar" through his head; and a circumstantial nick across his skull that may or may not have come from Reservoir Warrior Paul's hunter's bow and arrow.
My mom asked, "What are y'all going to do with it?" "Oh, we'll eat it," they all agreed, nodding in confirmation, "Grill it, fry it..." * "But what will you do with it tonight?" (My mom has never been a fan of letting things sit out overnight.) BCM shrugged, "Oh, we'll put it in a cooler - someone's volunteered one already." My mom and I looked at each other, looked down at the 12-ft alligator, did the traditional Southern female mental calculations of "How much freezer space do we have?" and looked back at each other, eyebrows furrowed. Mom asked uncertainly, "How big of a cooler is it?" BCM sort of cocked his head and answered very matter-of-factly, "It's a walk-in, ma'am." Naturally.
We heard rumors that a 13-footer had been caught and was headed to the station; but by close to midnight, Mom and I were tired and ready to go, even though only one other small gator had arrived. We called it a night. I know, I know -- gator hunt sissies. We were newbies, though; next time we'll be ready. Heck we may be there -- Frankie wants to enter next year. Shocker.
Did I mention they caught the 12-footer not far from where our lakehouse is? Who wants to come visit?
* Yes, I've eaten alligator before. It tastes like chicken.
Sunday, September 2, 2007
Saturday, September 1, 2007
Sometimes it's just not Debbie Reynolds
As has been mentioned many times, my brother and I were both Discovery Channel kids. We spent our entire childhood catching frogs and toads and lizards and things. I have noticed a couple of toads that appear every now and then onto the walkway right outside my front door. I assume they live in the flowerbed (or, thanks to the drought, the flower deathbed). Sometimes if I flip on the front light and peek out the front door very quickly, I can see them before they hop away into the darkness. They make me happy -- I don't want to catch them (anymore); I just like knowing that they're there. And, no, I haven't done something ridiculous and girly like naming them...
So, anyway, tonight before going to bed, I went out to look for Fred and Ethel (I mean, the toads), and what do I see? Not Fred. Not Ethel. I see... my mortal enemy. My nemesis. My, "No, not that! Anything but that! I'll talk! I'll talk!" That darn eight-legged consigliere of the devil himself stupid sitting right outside my stupid front door.
My brother, the braver of us two, would have said "It's just a stupid little wolf spider." True that. It definitely wasn't the biggest wolf spider I've ever seen. (I still see that one in my sleep.) But it was big enough. (I have a firm belief that any spider bigger than a silver dollar should be restricted to the jungle. Or possibly Australia.) And it was looking. At. My. House.
Most people would say, "Just leave him alone; let him eat the bugs." However, most people do not have my instinctive reaction to spiders of climbing on top of the nearest piece of furniture (or nearest person) and screaming for help. Ergo, "leaving him alone" is not really an option for me if I ever want to sleep, nap, blink, or generally have a regular heartbeat within these walls in the near future. I do have a rule that as long as spiders stay in their territory (I.e., "outside"), that's fair. But when they invade my territory (I.e., "inside"), then we're gonna' have a fight. This one was close enough.
I closed the door, put on my tennis shoes, pulled my hair back, and armed myself appropriately. Weapons of choice: bug spray in one hand; Lysol in the other. [Nota Bene: The story of "How to Use Lysol As a Defense Against Spiders" may be retold in a follow-up post.] I opened the door gently. He was still there. I carefully stepped waaaaaay over him, pulled the door shut behind me, pivoted on tiptoe, and assumed a "graffiti warrior" yoga pose, facing the enemy.
I hit him with the bug spray, careful not to spray so close as to knock him towards the door. He didn't flinch. I hit him with the Lysol. Some ants scattered from underneath him. He barely twitched. I thought, "Is he dead already? Did the ants already get to him, and he just hasn't curled up or something?"
Spiders don't have normal lungs like most animals do: they have "book lungs". They work more like gills than lungs, really. I'm telling you, I watched a lot of Discovery Channel. Plus, as Sun Tsu would say, "Know your enemy..."
Sorry, Discovery nerd tangent. The point is that spiders don't breathe like we do. So I waited a few seconds, trying to calculate the potential absorption rate of chemicals into his system. He didn't do much. I sprayed again, alternating cans. He moved towards the wall, but not too quickly. I sprayed again; and at this point I had sprayed enough that as the human being with normal lungs, I had to take a step back and refresh my own oxygen supply.
Maybe it was the rush of clean oxygen, but it somewhere in this mix I realized that those ants were awfully tiny. And didn't really move like ants. And weren't really shaped like ants. Oh, no, no, no, no, NO...
For the non-Discovery kids out there, I should mention here that wolf spiders often carry their newly hatched young on their backs. He was a she. And she had babies. Many babies. Whiiiiiine...
The conclusion of this story is that "she" is officially dead. Confirmed. And my front stoop is wet with Lysol and bug spray in my attempt to drown any other living book-lunged creature in that area. I felt kind of bad, taking out a mom. I mean, I read Charlotte's Web when I was little; and I cried when Charlotte died and Wilbur the pig had to raise her babies. (Like pigs do in children's stories.) But Charlotte was sort of an idealistic, abstract animal who in her most concrete form lived in two dimensions and sang pretty songs in Debbie Reynolds's voice. That was not who was sitting on my front doorstep tonight.
As I've said before, the great thing about phobias is that they don't have to make any sense. I really can't be certain that I got rid of the all of the teeny-tiny baby spiders. Statistically speaking, I'm fairly confident that I didn't. So, I'll probably be sleeping with some lights on tonight. Maybe I should watch the Charlotte's Web cartoon movie for a little positive therapy. I'm pretty sure The Discovery Channel would not be a good idea.
So, anyway, tonight before going to bed, I went out to look for Fred and Ethel (I mean, the toads), and what do I see? Not Fred. Not Ethel. I see... my mortal enemy. My nemesis. My, "No, not that! Anything but that! I'll talk! I'll talk!" That darn eight-legged consigliere of the devil himself stupid sitting right outside my stupid front door.
My brother, the braver of us two, would have said "It's just a stupid little wolf spider." True that. It definitely wasn't the biggest wolf spider I've ever seen. (I still see that one in my sleep.) But it was big enough. (I have a firm belief that any spider bigger than a silver dollar should be restricted to the jungle. Or possibly Australia.) And it was looking. At. My. House.
Most people would say, "Just leave him alone; let him eat the bugs." However, most people do not have my instinctive reaction to spiders of climbing on top of the nearest piece of furniture (or nearest person) and screaming for help. Ergo, "leaving him alone" is not really an option for me if I ever want to sleep, nap, blink, or generally have a regular heartbeat within these walls in the near future. I do have a rule that as long as spiders stay in their territory (I.e., "outside"), that's fair. But when they invade my territory (I.e., "inside"), then we're gonna' have a fight. This one was close enough.
I closed the door, put on my tennis shoes, pulled my hair back, and armed myself appropriately. Weapons of choice: bug spray in one hand; Lysol in the other. [Nota Bene: The story of "How to Use Lysol As a Defense Against Spiders" may be retold in a follow-up post.] I opened the door gently. He was still there. I carefully stepped waaaaaay over him, pulled the door shut behind me, pivoted on tiptoe, and assumed a "graffiti warrior" yoga pose, facing the enemy.
I hit him with the bug spray, careful not to spray so close as to knock him towards the door. He didn't flinch. I hit him with the Lysol. Some ants scattered from underneath him. He barely twitched. I thought, "Is he dead already? Did the ants already get to him, and he just hasn't curled up or something?"
Spiders don't have normal lungs like most animals do: they have "book lungs". They work more like gills than lungs, really. I'm telling you, I watched a lot of Discovery Channel. Plus, as Sun Tsu would say, "Know your enemy..."
Sorry, Discovery nerd tangent. The point is that spiders don't breathe like we do. So I waited a few seconds, trying to calculate the potential absorption rate of chemicals into his system. He didn't do much. I sprayed again, alternating cans. He moved towards the wall, but not too quickly. I sprayed again; and at this point I had sprayed enough that as the human being with normal lungs, I had to take a step back and refresh my own oxygen supply.
Maybe it was the rush of clean oxygen, but it somewhere in this mix I realized that those ants were awfully tiny. And didn't really move like ants. And weren't really shaped like ants. Oh, no, no, no, no, NO...
For the non-Discovery kids out there, I should mention here that wolf spiders often carry their newly hatched young on their backs. He was a she. And she had babies. Many babies. Whiiiiiine...
The conclusion of this story is that "she" is officially dead. Confirmed. And my front stoop is wet with Lysol and bug spray in my attempt to drown any other living book-lunged creature in that area. I felt kind of bad, taking out a mom. I mean, I read Charlotte's Web when I was little; and I cried when Charlotte died and Wilbur the pig had to raise her babies. (Like pigs do in children's stories.) But Charlotte was sort of an idealistic, abstract animal who in her most concrete form lived in two dimensions and sang pretty songs in Debbie Reynolds's voice. That was not who was sitting on my front doorstep tonight.
As I've said before, the great thing about phobias is that they don't have to make any sense. I really can't be certain that I got rid of the all of the teeny-tiny baby spiders. Statistically speaking, I'm fairly confident that I didn't. So, I'll probably be sleeping with some lights on tonight. Maybe I should watch the Charlotte's Web cartoon movie for a little positive therapy. I'm pretty sure The Discovery Channel would not be a good idea.
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